


In the Footsteps of the Sun

by dread_thehalfhanded



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: A little murder is okay, Canon Compliant, Gen, M/M, Murder Mystery, Post-The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt, Stabbing, The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt, Witcher Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, Witcher!Ciri World State, parenting is hard
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:28:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27872306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dread_thehalfhanded/pseuds/dread_thehalfhanded
Summary: “Your father cares for you, in his own way,” said Geralt, doubting the statement himself, but feeling morally obligated to stick by it nonetheless.“Fuck that, and him,” said Ciri.
Relationships: Emhyr var Emreis/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Comments: 36
Kudos: 166





	1. Chapter 1

“Your father cares for you, in his own way,” said Geralt, doubting the statement himself, but feeling morally obligated to stick by it nonetheless.

“Fuck that, and him,” said Ciri.

Hard to argue with her on that one, so he took a drink instead. A long one.

Around them, a bitter-cold forest lay in silence, leaves crunching and cracking under the weight of winter. With a little fire at their feet, and furs around their necks, the crisp air was bearable at stride, or by the flames.

How the Nilfgaardian courier had found them way out in the Aedernian wilderness—or what was left of it, considering the enterprising peasants and equally-enterprising soldiers’ dedication to destroying the local flora—he had no idea. But found them he had, teeth rattling in his black beekeeper’s armor, and ridden off again into the dusk with a single regretful glance at their little fire.

Where he thought he was going to go, night like tonight, he wondered, but he didn’t intend to think too hard on that one. Another man risking his neck for the Empire, not anyone’s business but his own. Men have done more foolish things for coin. Like kill monsters.

Point was, the courier had gone, leaving him alone with a confounding little note and his equally-confounding daughter.

Ciri tipped back her bottle, the brown glass in her gloved hand starting to frost over, and he wondered for a moment if he should be letting her drink all that. Something, something, bad parenting. What would Yen say? But, then again, Yen wasn’t here—and when had he ever _let_ Ciri do anything?

He looked at the scrap of neatly-folded brown paper in his gloved palm again, as though it might change shape or color or the writing on it might disappear entirely. The scribbled ink looped over itself so anally intricately you might mistake it for a child’s scribble, if the ink didn’t stink of money.

 _Sir Geralt,_ ran the note—

_Please come to the palace at once. An urgent matter regarding our mutual acquaintance requires your attention, as well as your discretion. Ask for Mererid, engage no one else._

_Regards,_

_A well-wisher_

The text of the message had not, in fact, changed in the two minutes since the last time he’d read it. It wasn’t Emhyr. Couldn’t be, not after the last time, not when Geralt had, for all intents and purposes, failed him. Or lied, which, if known, would be infinitely worse.

If it was just him? Fuck it, he’d go, even if just for curiosity’s sake. But Ciri, gods if he found out she still lived…

“But it isn’t Emhyr,” he said, with more conviction than he felt. This would be the kind of sly, underhanded bullshit the emperor would pull. “I can’t imagine him wanting to see my disappointing face again. But mutual acquaintance? Not sure I know enough Nilfgaardians to have any of those. And who the fuck in Nilfgaard _wishes me well_?”

He spat the last few words out like they pained him, caught like a bone in the gut. Southerners always said one thing, and meant another. Fuck if he was going to try and figure out what was meant. Nothing pleasant, he’d bet.

“Who’d you fuck last time you were there?” came Ciri’s elegant answer.

He fidgeted against the log behind him. What was _wrong_ with her?

“No one. Also, that is… not appropriate.”

“Not appropriate?” she snorted. “What are you, my governess? We’ve been over this.” She shook her head at him with mock sincerity. “Don’t look at me like that. It’s your reputation, not mine.”

He frowned at her, then back down at the note. The possibilities swarmed over themselves, though the list was far too short for his liking—but he made it anyway.

“Emhyr is probably the only person in Nilfgaard who might have ever wanted to see me again,” he said, pointing one finger with fervor at the snow, “And that was before I lied to his face. So, not him.”

He held up a second finger.

“Morvran Voorhis? He saw what I could do, professionally, and as the appointed heir could have a contract. But, I doubt he would risk the emperor’s wrath by soliciting the white wolf, when said wolf has been forbidden the capitol. Plenty of other witchers in the world.”

A third finger extended.

“Which leaves me with what? An anonymous solicitor? Don’t like that. The chamberlain—no, the barber? He’d invite me back just to watch the execution.”

He waved the little paper at her, trying to impress on her the seriousness of the situation. Ciri did not even blink. 

“I. Don’t know. Who sent this.”

She shrugged with a cultivated disregard. “Does it matter? Just ignore it.”

The Lady of Time and Space has spoken, said the shrug. Let anyone who cares to contest her will speak, and woe betide them!

Geralt sighed, and shoved the paper into the bag at his feet. His shoulder ached, his knee ached, and it was too goddamn cold to deal with any of this. Most importantly, he was out of beer, and not even a little bit drunk.

“I’m going to bed,” he announced, as though that activity involved anything other than walking five feet to the right and crawling into a low tent.

There was absolutely no justification for the knot of dread in his stomach at the message, and yet. It reminded him all too clearly of how close Nilfgaard could be at their heels anytime they wanted—almost as if he’d gotten _permission_ from the emperor himself to roam the wilderness, rather than pulled the wool over his eyes and gotten away with it.

And that said permission could be revoked at any time.

“Suit yourself,” called Ciri after him. “Don’t forget we have a slyzard tomorrow.”

“You and that bottle don’t forget,” he said, flipping the door of his lean-to shut.

In worse weather than this, they’d want to share, but Ciri had all her own things and no matter how much he liked her, he did like to stretch all the way out in his own bed.

He lay down—would have knelt, if the ceiling had been low enough—and pulled enough furs over himself to suffocate a lesser man. Witcher hunting skills had plenty of uses—alternative applications, Lambert called them—and after enough years on the path, he’d be damned if he wasn’t going to at least try to be comfortable.

After some minutes, when he breath no long stung the skin on his face and the stinging clench of his shoulder relaxed infinitesimally, he reached for sleep or mediation. Whichever came first.

\---

Regrettably, the note was still there, on the top of his pack, in the morning.

“Do you think Voorhis sent it?” he asked, casually, as they skinned the slyzard.

Ciri looked up at him with her hands full of purple guts and fixed him with a glare. One of the creature’s venom sacs had burst and her hair was slicked with it, all pink-yellow and pus streaked.

“I have no idea, but if you want to find out, you best go.”

“I don’t want to go, I want to know who wants me to go. There’s a difference, and it could get one or both of us killed.”

She looked down at her work again as he worked a knife into the spine.

“Sure. But I think you want to go,” she said, finally, in a voice curiously devoid of emotion.

He hummed non-committedly to that. Dangerous to commit to wanting things in a world like this one, and she should know that better than most.

“Mystery that needs solving. Wouldn’t you?”

“No,” said Ciri, still in that cold, curious voice, even as her hands flew over the carcass, pulling scale from skin with a practiced ease.

He waited for her to elaborate. They’d never really talked about it, Nilfgaard. The Emperor’s involvement in the end of the world—on the right side of things, curiously enough—their mad dash to hide Ciri before he could catch wind of her again, and deafening silence that had followed, all seemed like good things to bury in the mud under your boots and keep on walking from.

Maybe she didn’t want to bury it, though. Maybe she regretted it. The thought stung, that she might want to go back to that gilded cage—but stranger things had happened and who wouldn’t want a warm bed more nights than not, here in the wilderness?

She still hadn’t said anything, just struck the poor dead slyzard with a force it didn’t deserve.

“It’s already dead, you know,” he said finally, watching her more than anything.

Hacking the rest of the slick organ out, she put down both the liver and the knife and fixed him with a look, her arms red to the elbows.

“Geralt,” she said, with a stern iron in her tone, and yeah, that was the Yen in her, “Are you seriously asking me to give you permission?”

“What? No,” he said, realizing it was a lie as soon as it left his mouth.

She sighed.

“I don’t want to see that thrice-damned city again for the rest of my days. I won’t sleep under that banner, break bread in his house, or watch the sun set over any land where the black flag flies. That is the measure I have poured out for myself, and I will drink it dry. You, however—” she pointed a bloody finger at his chest, leaving a smear, “—are not in the least bound by that. I am not offended if you want to go, though I don’t see why. But you clearly want to.”

“That seems,” he stumbled, “A little extreme.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Is it?”

That look spelled danger, he knew. Hard to hear her setting up grudges to life a lifetime by, but some things you learn by living. Best to leave that one where it lay.

“I don’t want to leave you out here alone,” he said, lamely.

“Hah,” she huffed a laugh, and her quick anger passed, gone again on white wings, “Who’s protecting who? High time we took a break, if that’s how you feel. Besides,” she nodded to the sword on her back, “I have Swallow here to protect me.”

That settled that, he guessed. Nodding slowly, he went back to the work—slice, skin, cut away tendon from bone. Nothing needed goes to waste, not a drop of blood, not a scale unusable. The only limit the size of your pack, the strength of your legs—and the hounds at your heels.

They finished in silence, leaving the rest of the carcass to rot in the cave, or freeze, to rot come spring. More’n likely the latter.

After they’d washed in the frozen river, Geralt handed over the trophies wordlessly. They mounted up, and turned to go their separate ways without a goodbye, as they always did. No goodbyes for witchers, only greetings at the end of a long road—or nothing at all. Best not to hurry the Path’s end.

Ciri turned her mount to face him at the tree line, a few yards apart.

“Sure you won’t come, just to the border?” he tried. “Warmer that way.”

“No, Geralt.” Her lips twitched up in a smile that told him she understood why he was asking.

“Hate him that much?” he said.

The eerie green of her eyes flickered with a light brighter than white flame for the briefest of moments. 

“Yes.”


	2. Chapter 2

The miles thundered by, and it took exactly one day and one night of working Roach far harder than she deserved for Geralt to realize that he was _in a hurry._

In a hurry, to see who in Nilfgaard wanted his hands for work. (The options were few, none of them good.) In a rush, to go to what was, in all probability, a situation likely to threaten him with impending death in some fashion or other. Yen would never let him hear the end of it.

He dropped to a trot in the evening light, somewhere in west Aederin, a little self-conscious—as if _she_ would simply appear out of the trees to chastise him for his eagerness to throw his life away in protection of their daughter. He scented the air a little, just to be sure, and Roach snorted at him. Wheat-warm wind, cows out to pasture, standing water making a home for mosquitos. Nothing, of course—she never wanted to see him these days.

Couldn’t say he blamed her.

But that was why he hurried, of course. Protection. Didn’t want Ciri to come to harm, or to have anyone else on her trail the rest of her days, if possible. If Emhyr wanted to put an end to her freedom, he would do his best to stand in his way as long as he could. The wild hunt had chased her enough for a lifetime, she deserved what any witcher had—a long road, a warm meal at the end, drinks with friends, and the freedom to choose her own path. Even if that meant monsters.

Been a long time since he’d thought of the Path that way. Felt nice. She should get her turn at it.

For Roach’s sake, he made camp that night, alone, and let her graze and drowse. He sat there staring at the note in front of the flickering fire for a long time. He couldn’t shake the feeling of uncertainty, eagerness, almost dread deep down in the bottom of his gut, that pushed him down this road. 

Still. The summons was being answered, no reason to rush it. Couldn’t rightly punish him for being on his way. So, like any good man when faced with a problem, he ate well, slept deeply, and kept on steadfast in the morning.

\---

At the Temerian border, Geralt was greeted by the largest ruckus since any event that involved Dandelion. He rode into the little border town slowly, down streets lined with cheering folk, ribbons in their hair. An astonishing amount of black and gold, everywhere. One girl pulled her skirts up right in front of him to show off black-and-white striped stockings with gold suns on them.

(He smiled, and tried not to look.)

When he slipped off Roach, finally, and got a mugful of ale sloshed in his face, he sputtered his mounting confusion at the scene at the apologetic peasant.

“What the hell is going on here?”

The peasant, a mid-thirties man with a face as red as a stuck pig—gonna die young, probably liver failure—grinned at the soaking witcher.

“Haven’t heard? Ohhhhhh, more’s the pity,” he gestured widely with the mug, nearly overturning it. Couldn’t be much left in there. “All hail the emperor!”

“The emperor? Thought Emhyr wasn’t exactly popular around here.”

Admittedly, it had been a while since he’d been in Temeria, but public sentiment didn’t change all that quickly unless there was a lot of money or alcohol involved. Well, there was an awful lot of booze around—

“Not him, fool, the new one,” sloshed the peasant, “The good ‘un!”

Either the intricacies of Nilfgaardian politics were more complicated than he remembered, or news seriously got twisted all the way out here.

“What good one?”

The peasant frowned.

“Well… Don’t rightly remember. But he’s got a sight less killing under him than the old man.”

Not quite fair, that. Emhyr wasn’t exactly old, and he’d guarantee you that whoever replaced him had just as much blood on their hands. Maybe more, depending on how he, or she, got there.

“What happened to the old guy?” he asked, wondering just how many state secrets had made it all the way out here.

“Don’t know, don’t care,” shrugged the man, attempting to take a swig of his now-empty mug. “Want some?”

“No thanks.”

Geralt sifted his way through the crowd, dodging scantily-clad young men and boisterous older women hooting over their new overlord. Why would anyone here even care? This was, technically, a Temerian province. Just because they had Nilfgaardian neighbors east, west, and south didn’t mean they had to act Nilfgaardian.

He stopped wondering though, about the time he spotted the maker’s marks on the ale casks. Nilfgaardian ale, flowing like water through the streets of even a backwater province like this one—he had to hand it to them, Emhyr or whoever. Sure did know how to keep an empire, after catching it.

\---

In Vizima, the situation was much the same, except that somebody knew who the new emperor actually was.

“Morvran Voorhis. Doesn’t seem like such a bad guy,” was Zoltan’s ever practical take. “Knows his beasts and never said no to a mug of ale, so the word goes.”

Weird criteria to pick a ruler on, but this information seemed to have settled matters in the minds of the Temerian rustics. Roche would have his work cut out for him, if he ever cared to have a try at winning their loyalties back.

Zoltan at least acknowledged the political ramifications of such a change in power. Perhaps this individual would be less interested hunting Ciri, for sport or otherwise, he suggested, very seriously over a game of gwent. Geralt almost agreed—he’d met Voorhis at least once, maybe more than that if you accounted for how much the damn folks looked alike.

Maybe he’d give up the chase. Didn’t seem like the kind of guy who’d hold a grudge… If you didn’t look too closely at his stellar military record. And that theory still left notorious strategic mastermind Emhyr Var Emris unaccounted for, which was never a good thing. If he wasn’t dead, he’d be plotting, and forgiveness wasn’t a word in his vocabulary.

Shifting in his seat opposite Zoltan at the card table, he already itched to get back on the road again. Get to the bottom of all this before it snuck up behind Ciri with a pitchfork.

“Something bothering you, laddie?”

He shook his head, flinching a little at the twinge in his neck as he did. Should get someone to look at that.

“Nah. Got a long road ahead, is all.”

\---

The miles sped by, from Vizima to Maribor to Mettina by way of Nazair. Around the third recently-conquered country he’d ridden through end-to-end, stopping only for a quick bite to eat and actually skipping a few big, juicy-looking noticeboards, he’d begun to genuinely worry. 

None of the soldiers on the road stopped him, tried to begin an arrest, or even so much as passed along a follow-up message. What was he playing at?

Of course the note came from Emhyr. Who else, especially during a transition of power? Who else would know where he was, what leash to tug?

Fuck, he’d probably known the whole time. Known all about he and Ciri’s little lie, and let him go with the full knowledge of the leash he now held. He sneered, mimicking the impression he’d make at Emhyr when he saw him, unbothered by the few others on the road around him who started and nudged their mounts away.

Geralt-of-fucking-Rivia, terrified of the most powerful man in the world—well, former most powerful man in the world, apparently—all because he couldn’t see his daughter roped into royalty against her will.

He stopped to switch Roachs again for the third time, and patted this one’s nose regretfully before leaving her. He hated going through horses like this, but it was better than running one until she dropped. The new Roach had a star on her forehead, instead of a blaze, and not enough forelock, which was too bad. He liked a thick forelock, made her look like she had eyebrows.

Giving old-Roach one last pat, he took new-Roach’s bridle and headed for the road at a brisk jog. In the distance, just at the unsettlingly-flat skyline, he could see the towers of Nilfgaard’s capitol city rising stark against the horizon.

\---

Sweat dripping down his back, Geralt finally, finally stood at the grand carved doors of the thrice-damned royal palace of Nilfgaard in the equally-damned capitol city. Too fucking hot down here, and no one treated a witcher like they ought. For fuck’s sake, someone had actually smiled at him on his way in. Like they didn’t know two swords and armor that screamed “I pulled this off a dead guy” meant trouble.

With nothing else better to do, and feeling a fool, he knocked on the big golden door. Better or worse, these could be his last steps as a free man, if Emhyr knew he was here—which he probably did. Or if Morvran just turned out to be the sort to hold a grudge. But maybe one or the other would be willing to play a game of Gwent with him before the beheading.

For a moment, nothing happened. He stood there, blinking in the sun in front of golden gates emblazoned with twin suns (and reflecting the light like a bitch), and wished somebody would go ahead and arrest him. Be a lot simpler to get inside and get done whatever needed doing. The right person would find out he’d been caught, and come to see him in a delightful little cell with a limited array of sociopolitical hurdles.

The golden doors rattled, rumbled, and shook ever so slightly as the door on the right slid open just a smidge, and a nervous-looking teenage face in black armor peered out of the gap.

“Who is it?”

Geralt blinked at the boy, who spoke with that distinctively Nilfgaardian tone of stick-up-the-ass. Of all the ways to receive imperial visitors, this hadn’t been what he was expecting. Based on experience with imperial troops, this probably wasn’t in the handbook. But then, neither was knocking on the palace gates, probably.

“I uh, have an appointment. Here to see Mererid.”

“Mererid who?”

Fuck, he didn’t know. Did the man have a last name?

“Uh, used to be the old emperor’s chamberlain?”

“Ah. Mererid aep Maecht,” said the boy, frosty demeanor increasing slightly, if that was even possible. “You will be looking for the servant’s entrance.”

Great. Maybe someone would mug him on the way.

“Which is…?”

“Two streets to your left, large brown doors, you can’t miss it.”

Seemed like pretty sketch directions to him, but he’d had worse to go on. The boy gave Roach a pointed look before shutting the big fancy doors again, and Geralt noted that he hadn’t seen any horses on the streets in quite a while. Must be a society thing—and he tried not to get involved in those.

\---

Big brown doors, this time, but still with two blazing suns emblazoned larger than was strictly necessary. Must be the place. He sighed. No muggers yet, or a hint of an arrest. He couldn't help but feel slightly disappointed; he'd expected more from Emhyr. But, there was time yet. Maybe someone would mistake him for a bandit here, without the stoic imperial guard to rely upon for safety?

Hope springs eternal.

He raised his fist to knock, Roach’s bridle still trailing from the other hand, when he heard footsteps in the shadows to his right. Crates of foodstuffs, scaffolding, smell of poultry. He sniffed, got nothing but spices and the well-covered scent of vegetables beginning to rot. Heart soaring for an instant at the prospect of a fight—or better, an attempted kidnapping—he turned to the sound.

“The gentleman will please refrain from disturbing the staff.”

His heart sank.


	3. Chapter 3

A hooded figure stepped quick-toed out from behind a wall of crates with the short, well-bred step of a courtier. The face, pinched and half-hidden in the shadow of the cowl, reminded him of a half-dozen skinflint merchants he’d disliked over the years.

“Mererid?”

It wasn’t really a question, but he wanted to see how committed the chronically constipated chamberlain was to his bit. The figure brushed a leaf of wilted lettuce off one shoulder with some disdain.

“The gentleman will follow me, please. And he will leave his horse behind.”

“Roach? No way.”

Roach had fended for herself places a sight worse than this, but like hell was he going to leave her behind just because someone asked.

“Equines are not permitted past the city gates. I am surprised you made it this far without interference. I will call someone to fetch it.”

“Her.”

Mererid met his gaze with a firm authority that suggested there would be no argument on the subject. With half a mind to just mount up again and ride off, letter be damned, Geralt bared his teeth even as he untangled the reins from his hand.

“You have a lot to explain.”

“In due time. Now, if the gentleman will follow me?”

Grudgingly, Geralt looped one end of Roach’s reins around the torch holder by the door, and pointedly ignored Mererid’s stare as he did so.

“Lead on, your chamberlain-cy.”

With a small frown, he did.

Even the servant’s entrance to the palace struck Geralt as “really fucking excessive” and “highly impractical”. They slipped through gilded halls, up winding staircases carved from a grey rock he could not recognize, and, once, inched behind a tapestry heavy enough to serve as a Skelligan sailcloth.

Mererid, having dispensed of the hood and initial pretense of stealth, lead them along the empty halls at a breakneck speed—never moving faster than a walk.

“In a hurry?”

The chamberlain did not respond, which only added to the absurd mystery of the situation. A few moments later, he stopped heel-first, and pulled them all helter-skelter into a small storage closet that turned out to contain the entire empire’s worth of pillowcases. Geralt raised both eyebrows, but politely said nothing as footsteps scurried past. When the corridor fell to plush silence, they set out once more.

Of all the ways to see the imperial palace of the largest empire on the continent, this had to be the oddest.

Finally, they came to a plain wooden door, in a plain stone hallway, which Mererid opened with the plainest key on his massive key ring. The doorframe was offensively low. Inside, a plain bed sat in one corner, a plain table and chairs in the other. Geralt wondered, briefly, if this was Mererid’s bedroom—it would suit him.

Locking the door behind them, Mererid turned to face him with a grim set to his brows. Frowning, Geralt leaned against the table and waited for the situation to unravel.

“The gentleman is aware that a new emperor has been crowned?”

No pleasantries? It must be serious. He could smell the fear now, rolling off the man in waves.

“Morvran, horse guy, yeah.”

Mererid’s lips folded up in an approximation of a tense smile.

“Emperor Voorhis does enjoy the races now and again, yes. However, I did not call you here to discuss—”

Grinning, Geralt leaned back against the table he’d perched his ass on, content with not sitting in any of the absurdly unremarkable furniture for the time being. That was one answer down, at least.

“So, it was you.”

The chamberlain’s face turned slightly pink, and it he hadn’t known better, Geralt might have thought he was blushing.

“I did,” he said, very stiffly. “I did not want to arouse undue suspicion should my ruse be discovered.”

“Undue suspicion? You put your name in it.”

The man turned even redder, and stared very carefully at a single spot on the wall opposite.

“I am but a carrier of many messages for many hands. I had thought to cast suspicion elsewhere, should it fall into Nilfgaardian hands.”

“Well, it didn’t.”

“The gentleman is, as ever, highly astute.”

Geralt couldn’t see a reason to argue with that, but Mererid didn’t follow that up with anything, so the silence hung there for a long minute, a tense-jawed quasi-courtier staring at a mildly amused witcher.

When nothing more was forthcoming, Geralt prodded a little. The man deserved it.

“So, you wanted to see me? Got a, what, a contract?”

Shifting uncomfortably, the chamberlain finally pulled out the chair opposite Geralt and sat down.

This was, itself, a small miracle. Geralt hadn’t known he could do that.

“I need help,” said Mererid, without making eye contact, and Geralt’s eyebrows shot up higher than before. “The empire needs your help.”

For one very, very long moment afterwards, Geralt waited for the laugh, the smirk, even the barest twinkle of an eye that would betray the fact that this absolutely was a joke.

The room stank, instead, of fear, and therefore sincerity.

He glared at Mererid.

“Is this a joke? You have an entire empire’s worth of soldiers, spies, and who knows what else, not to mention an at least vaguely competent emperor and very competent former emperor, and you want my help?”

“It is complicated.”

“Do tell.”

“Is the gentleman aware of the circumstances surrounding the abdication of Emhyr Var Emreis?”

Geralt sighed. Why did people keep assuming he had any idea what went on at court? Did he _look_ like someone who cared?

If so, he should really work on that. “Not really. I know he had everything planned to leave the throne to Ciri, but after she, uh—” he dropped his eyes, “—yeah, I figured he passed all that along to someone else, Morvran, apparently.”

“Correct. The gentleman should also know—”

“My name is Geralt.”

“—Geralt,” said Mererid, rolling the word out with some distaste. “His former imperial majesty did intend to assist with the transition for at least the next eighteen months, if only in an informal capacity. He would not be allowed at court—such was the condition of the Great Houses—but he would be able to provide certain counsel when called upon.”

Geralt nodded, that sounded about like Emhyr. Clawing onto power as long as he could, wherever he could.

“So, what happened?”

“He is…” Mererid’s eyes traveled around the room, and the fear-scent spiked once more. “Gone.”

“You said he couldn’t remain at court, sounds like the plan was for him to leave?”

“Yes, but you must understand, his former imperial majesty had a plan, an itinerary. He does not deviate without warning, without informing at least myself and some others. He has simply disappeared.”

Geralt blinked, and looked closer at Mererid.

“You’re what, worried about him?”

Mererid shifted his gaze, almost guiltily, to the floor.

“I have served his majesty for the last two decades. It would be remiss of me to not seek aid in the advent of his disappearance.”

For Mererid, this was almost a heartfelt declaration of affection. Geralt was impressed.

“Why not just get Morvran to look into it? They were friends. Or whatever passes for that kind of thing around here. I’m sure he could send a few brigades after a missing emperor. He can’t have got far, unless it’s a kidnapping, in which case I expect they’ll bring him back before too long.”

Anyone who kidnapped Emhyr would be eager to get rid of him in about 30 minutes, or so successfully out-negotiated by their own hostage that they had to bargain with him for their freedom. Either way it seemed ill-advised, in his private, witcherly opinion.

At the mention of Voorhis, Mererid straightened up even more than before, spine pulled from each end like a yule cracker.

“Therin lies the issue. His imperial majesty was left with clear directions following the coronation regarding his predecessor, left by Var Emreis himself. These directions clearly state that no search is to be made following a disappearance.”

“And yet, here we are.”

Mererid flushed again.

“There are certain evidences which suggest that this disappearance is not in line with the one his former imperial majesty might have designed for himself. His majesty is not convinced of this. Therefore, I have taken the liberty of enlisting private services, namely your own, for the purpose of determining the location and quality of his former imperial majesty’s whereabouts.” He paused, looking still distinctly guilty. “And it is well-known that the gentleman’s tracking abilities far exceed those of our own spies, soldiers, and other staff.”

“So, let me get this straight,” said Geralt, helpless against his own shit-eating grin. “Emhyr’s gone missing, no one else will look for him, but you think something’s fishy and hired a witcher to find him— _against the will of the emperor?”_

“The gentleman will refrain from saying that too loudly, or ever again.” 

The idea of Mererid, dutiful chamberlain, gone rogue? He choked down laughter with some difficulty.

“This must be serious.” He hefted himself off the table, still grinning. “What’s my fee?”

Mererid stood as well, and managed to look even more disapproving than before.

“The gentleman will be well-compensated for his trouble. And his discretion.”

“You got it, pal. Now, let’s see these ‘certain evidences’.”

“Right this way, sir.”

Still trying to swallow a smile, Geralt followed the little Nilfgaardian out into the maze of hallways again—remembering just in time to duck under the doorframe on his way out.

\---

In the small study just outside a modest suite of apartments, Geralt settled himself at Emhyr’s desk—smaller than the imperial one but no less covered in carefully organized documents—and flipped his way through one stack of paper after another. The guards shifted uncomfortably at his presence, and he could smell the sweat dripping down their backs inside that ridiculous armor, but they’d get over it soon enough. He sniffed the page in front of him—a sheet of Kaedweni exports for the previous year—and sorted it into the irrelevant pile.

The official story, Mererid had informed Geralt on their way to the imperial wing, was that as the departed princess’s guardian, Geralt would be permitted to peruse the former emperor’s study and other personal belongings to select what to request as her portion of the inheritance. The committee in charge of distributing the Var Emreis assets would then take his requests into account. This too, apparently, had been included in Emhyr’s copious notes—the inheritance bit, not the sorta-kinda breaking Nilfgaardian law part.

But what Voorhis didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. Best to be in and out quickly, then, and before anyone could start asking questions about how, exactly, Geralt knew to come looking for such a thing. Especially since the rumor of Emhyr’s disappearance allegedly hadn’t left the palace.

“The gentleman may want to pay special attention to the top right-hand drawer,” said Mererid, as casually as he could while still taut as a drawn bow.

“Thanks,” said Geralt, eyeing the guards.

How long did they have? Hours, minutes? 

Sniffing at the paper stacks once more, he slipped the drawer open and found a rusted penknife. Nothing remarkable, save for the fact that it had been allowed to rust. Most metal in Nilfgaard stayed polished within an inch of it’s life and then some. He sniffed it—acid, and blood. Odd, but not enough to put a case to the emperor.

Returning to the papers, he continued his skim over each page’s content, the feel of the paper in his hand, the smell of it. Most were reports, some just bulleted lists, but some spanned edge to edge in a thin, spidery writing that appeared to be Emhyr’s, providing a sharp, unforgiving analysis of some matter or other. Everything on the desk was clearly organized, each paper placed according to date, in graduating levels of importance.

No great state secrets to be found here, most reports dealt with the most mundane minutiae of running an empire, yet Emhyr appeared to give each matter the same level of crushingly thorough attention.

By the third stack, Geralt had to admit a grudging respect for the man. It was one thing to conquer most of the known world, and quite another to successfully manage textile shortages across half the continent.

Moving on from the desk, he swept over bookshelves, carpet, running gloved fingertips over leather spines and looking for anything out of the ordinary. It was clear that the desk saw most of Emhyr’s time, as most everything else looked untouched for much longer than the last few weeks. Nothing in the room appeared out of place, besides the desk drawer.

Finally, he finished his circuit of the room, and returned to Mererid with only a rusty penknife to show for his trouble.

“Not much here for a witcher,” he said, for the benefit of the Impera guard. “I do appreciate the offer though.”

“There’s more yet. This way,” said the chamberlain, and opened the door to Emhyr’s personal apartments.

\---

Rich white carpet sank under his boots at the first step, as the heavy scents of apples and cinnamon overwhelmed his brain. He coughed into the elbow of his gambeson, taking a breath or two through the stink of old sweat-soaked fabric before lifting his head again, breathing through his mouth. Mererid frowned as he lit the lamp.

A dim room spread out around him in the flickering light, left in something of a mess. A table, with one dish on it, a crumbled meal gone stale. Portrait of Ciri on one wall, portrait of a tall, blonde woman on the other opposite, likely Pavetta. A single goblet of fine, heavy gold, left empty on the table. A stack of books sorted into two piles beside it: _Monumenta Elforum_ , _The Horse Whistler_ , _Of Sweat and Blood_ , a few more in high Nilfgaardian. Odd choices.

He moved around the room, noting lines in the carpet where the same path was trod daily, the dust settled on the black velvet curtains drawn tightly shut. When he pulled them open, light flooded the room along with a cloud of dust.

“I ordered the rooms locked as soon as I learned,” offered Mererid, by way of explanation. “No one has entered since the day of the disappearance.”

“Hmm.”

Table unmarked, nothing on the windowsills, windows high above the rooftops of the rest of the palace. No one could have gotten in, or out, without a long rope and a strong stomach. He scented, briefly, and still got only apple-cinnamon, with the faintest memory of rotting fruit behind it. Must have been orange, perhaps grape on the plate.

“Fragrant in here,” he said aloud, looking through the few mostly-empty cupboards. Butter knife, candelabra, more books.

“His former imperial majesty enjoys the scent.”

The room didn’t give back much, but it told a story all the same. A lonely man lived here, surrounded by books. And ghosts.

One door waited at the end of the room, and Mererid pushed it open.

“Does the gentleman see anything useful?”

“Not much to go on yet.”

The next room was the bedroom, Emhyr’s bedroom, the thought occurred to Geralt, nearly incredulously. Talk about places you never thought you’d find yourself.

He took a deep breath—less apple here—and caught faint traces of the man himself. The heavy, musky scent of an older male, the smell several weeks old but he had clearly nested here, so it lingered. Strongest in the bed, of course, tangled in plain black blankets, under a black-and-gold coverlet. (He revised this statement several times in his head. Emhyr wasn't a basilisk, despite the resemblance.)

The bedclothes were still rumpled, a strangely intimate sight that Geralt had to look away from for a moment.

Small room, stone walls, four tapestries—one slightly crooked. Underneath, a basket of laundry lay overturned, as though someone had tripped on it in a hurry. Beside that, a lampstand skewed on the floor along with a windfall of books, similarly arrayed.

Mererid looked pointedly at the small collection of clutter.

Kneeling, Geralt ran his hand over the clothes, all soft gold-black under his palm. They barely felt worn, though he could catch the scent of light sweat, and that too, was Emhyr’s—except for _that_. A bitter tang hit him, like acid again, or onion, and he chased the scent on hands and knees under the bed.

“What IS the gentleman doing?” said Mererid, managing to only sound slightly scandalized.

The gentleman in question slithered on his belly under the bedframe, coating the front of his gambeson in dust, and considered the possibility of getting a bath later. Pupils stretched against the dark, he sniffed, inhaled a dust bunny, but the scent was stronger here, acrid against the tongue. He grasped at the vague grey shapes looming there, felt his hand close around fabric—and slithered out again as quick as he could. Small spaces were not made for witchers.

Rolling over, he inspected the items in his hand in the light. A quill pen with a broken nib, a pale handkerchief with a suspicious stain on it which he pointedly did not sniff, and a balled-up strip of torn black fabric, wide as a man’s hand, that reeked of acid and blood.

He sniffed it again, then stood and handed it to Mererid.

“Recognize this?”

Mererid looked at the fabric in his hands as though it might bite, but unfolded it and inspected the weave regardless.

“It’s Cintran weave, of middling quality. I cannot speak to the substance on it.”

“It’s blood, and some sticky shit, probably some sort of venom. Don’t get it on your hands—” Mererid put one hand quickly behind his back and held the fabric back out to Geralt, looking slightly green. “—and if you do, wash ‘em. Quick.”

Mererid nodded curtly. “What does it mean?”

“Think we can safely say this wasn’t planned. Something happened. No forced entry, but that doesn’t mean much. Any fool with a rappel kit could get up here no problem.”

“Unfortunate,” said Mererid, ushering them out of the room and shutting the door with one hand. “Can you find him?”

Geralt sighed, and picked his way through the depressing sitting room again. Oranges, he noted, were shriveled on the breakfast plate.

“Don’t know. Not much to go on. Any chance I could get on the roof without getting shot at? Like to see if anyone went that way.”

Mererid had the main door unlocked and paused with his back to it.

“No, I’m afraid. The guard would shoot on sight. I’m afraid I have no jurisdiction to tell them otherwise.”

“Then the acid is my only lead,” said Geralt, already planning to get on the roof as soon as the sun set.

“Will it be enough?” Real concern pinched at Mererid’s brow, and he almost felt sorry for the man.

“It’ll have to be,” he said, and patted the chamberlain’s shoulder—which made him stiffen immediately. “Let me out of this maze and go wash that hand. I’ll get on it.”

Before the chamberlain could turn the handle, the door opened from the other side. 

"Mererid aep Maecht, Geralt of Rivia," announced a bored Impera guard. "Your presence is requested by the Emperor at once."


	4. Chapter 4

“His Imperial Highness will see you now.”

Geralt bared his teeth at the herald, or perhaps Voorhis’s idea of a chamberlain. Behind him, Mererid made a discomfited noise, even as he rinsed his hands in a bowl of water held by a patient servant that had materialized out of thin air. Well, thick air, really—Nilfgaard.

“The gentleman will try to behave.” Probably a statement, from the chamberlain, but it came out as a rather tenuous question.

“Yeah, yeah.”

The great golden doors opened, and witcher and ex-chamberlain alike were ushered together into a tall, wide chamber with a checkerboard floor and a straight golden carpet to follow all the way down to the other end of the room. While you couldn’t hardly see the other side for the distance between, whoever was on the other end clearly didn’t have the same problem.

“Geralt!”

Geralt squinted, and wished for Roach.

“Morvran?”

A scandalized huff from behind him said that wasn’t how you addressed the Emperor of the North & South. Well, Emhyr got over it, Morvran would too. Besides, anyone who understood the clear superiority of Aedernian warmbloods over the flighty Nilfgaardian stock should be able to handle a little social chafing.

They approached the raised dais that stood at the far end of the room from the doors, slowly, Mererid a few paces behind Geralt. The dais stood higher than two men together, which struck Geralt as a highly impractical use of vertical space. Imagine all the unnecessary stairs, every day, just to get to work.

“Sir Geralt of Rivia,” droned the herald, “A Witcher. Of the school of the—”

“Oh, hush,” said the figure on the throne, “I know who he is.”

Geralt’s hopes for this audience rose exponentially. Closer now, nearly at the steps of the dais, he could see up the golden stairs to a great golden chair, where the familiar wide-lipped face of Morvran Voorhis sat. He was perched on the edge of the seat, as though for all his impeccable breeding he couldn’t believe his right to sit there.

“Geralt! Good to see you again. Bring that pretty mare of yours along this time?”

“Not this time,” said Geralt. Strictly speaking, he had sold the Roach Morvran referred to several countries back, at the Temerian border. 

“More’s the pity. Well, what brings you here? And why ever didn’t you come and see me first? Mererid, I would have expected better.”

Geralt didn’t have to turn around to see Mererid’s face to know that this was a terrible slight. The man probably hadn’t made a mistake in the last 20 years, intentional or otherwise. He must really care. 

“I uh, thought you were probably busy. Empire things. Just came for some paperwork.”

“Don’t play coy with me, Geralt,” said Morvran, standing up as everyone in the room—Mererid, a few dozen Impera guards stationed at checkerboard intervals—gasped a little. “Your domain is the slaying of beasts, the un-casting of curses, and the finding of lost things, is it not?”

“I guess,” said Geralt, shifting uncomfortably.

Morvran descended the golden stairs carefully, as one might tread on another’s property. He looked between Mererid and Geralt for a long moment, with a smile frozen on his face. It could have been glued there for all it moved.

Mererid swept another deep bow. Geralt did not move.

“I am glad to see you, friend,” said Morvran. “It has been a long time, and much has changed.”

“That it has,” said Geralt. No dark-haired threat loomed on the throne of Nilfgaard, ready to yank his chain at any moment, for one.

Morvran took a step closer, at this distance Geralt could see the circles under his eyes, even under the heavy paint.

“I must confess,” said Morvran in an almost-whisper, “I find myself quite out of my element, even after all these years. I cannot assist you in any official capacity. But please. Seek, and find what has been lost.”

He patted Geralt’s arm with an easy familiarity, then turned and swept back up the stairs. Mererid bowed again, for good measure.

“Go, witcher, and do what you do best. Let no monster prowl our lands unscoured, and no mystery fester in the darkest of cellars or the highest rafters. You are welcome in the Empire of the Sun! Please, enjoy your stay.”

The herald chose this moment to toodle a little ceremonial jingle on his horn. This appeared to be some kind of cue, as Mererid began to back away before the herald finished and Morvran proclaimed them:

“Dismissed!”

Geralt blinked. He had to stop making friends with powerful people. Bad habit, and once made, hard to shake.

\---

The night rolled pitch and black around him, only a few torches dotting the sea of roofs below. With a grunt, Geralt pulled himself up onto the precarious ledge of yet another windowsill, and eyed the roofs below. Would have been easier to take the stairs inside, but too many guards still prowled the hallways. He hooked fingers in a crack of plaster and tugged himself up, flat against the stone. Here, level with the Emperor’s apartments, with any luck, it would be a short, quick climb to the roof.

Then, he might actually get to the bottom of this mess.

One hand hooked into the stone; all was good. He tested his weight against the hold, and wished, not for the first time, that he could just do this in the daylight, catlike vision be damned. But Mererid had informed him in no uncertain terms that official guest of the Emperor or not, that anyone seen creeping on the rooftops unauthorized would be shot on sight.

“So, authorize me, then,” he’d said.

“Didn’t you hear the Emperor? He cannot officially recognize your purpose here at the court. It would jeopardize his tenuous position with the Solar Quintet and almost certainly violate the terms of his appointment.”

“Got it.”

So here he was, dangling from his fingertips at midnight, right over the Imperial wing of the palace. If the fall didn’t kill him, the bureaucratic wasp’s nest kicked up at his discovery probably would.

Two hands hooked into the stone, and his feet left the windowsill—and still, all was fine. Loosing one hand, he reached for the next hold, and caught it. Once, twice more he repeated this, boots braced against the smallest cracks in the castle walls. Still, all was fine. Another grope at blind stone, and then—just as his palm brushed the tiled roof of the small turret, a blinding flash of white-green light burst into the fabric of the sky nearly in front of his face.

He almost lost his grip, one booted foot dangling in thin air, but caught the edge of a crumbled brick at the last moment in a shower of gravel. Great. Excellent. Splattered onto the rooftops of the Nilfgaardian royal palace was not how he wanted to go. His hissed curses were cut short, however, when Ciri’s concerned face appeared over the rim of the roof.

“Geralt?!” came the furious whisper. “What the—”

“A little help?”

Between the two of them, he lay on his back on the cold terracotta soon enough. Ciri loomed over him, silver hair illuminated in the shallow moonlight, but not much else.

“What the hell Geralt?”

“I could ask you the same,” he growled. “Scared the shit outta me.”

“I came to find you, you didn’t come back and Dandelion said—”

“Don’t give a shit what Dandelion said—”

“—and I was worried about you.”

Her imperious frown reminded him a little of Yen again for a moment, and he sighed, relenting. He sat up and looked at her more carefully.

“Couldn’t have waited until daylight, not a half mile in the air?”

She made a face at him that said that was a stupid question. He didn’t care to find out how stupid, so he said, “Got a contract. Missing persons.”

“Who?”

“Hmh. Wanna tell me why you’re in Nilfgaard after that little speech of yours?”

She grinned—or, he assumed that she grinned, based on the little half rise of her shoulder and dip of her head.

“I’m incognito… _He_ never has to know. Besides, you’re worth making exceptions for. And I’m just here for you.”

“Huh. Could have fooled me.”

“Stop being so grumpy, and tell me all about your case.”

Hefting himself up, Geralt brushed the dust from his ass and sniffed. Heavy perfumes in the room below, wouldn’t have stayed after weeks. Blood might, though, though he didn’t much care to think about that.

“Male. On the north end of middle-aged. Noble, possibly kidnapped. Signs of a struggle, blood and acid residue.”

“Exciting. No ransom note, I presume. Any leads?”

“None,” he said, sniffing again. “Just a cloth from the scene. Test it later.”

Something warm caught his nose, a softer smell, faint a little further down the roofline. He made his way carefully down the tiles, testing each one before putting weight on it. Behind, Ciri’s little boots tap-tapped, trailing lightly after.

“Can I see?”

He huffed, smiling away from her. Such a child still, sometimes.

“Not in the dark, on a roof.”

“Spoilsport.”

Still, she hung back and waited politely, now, as he hunted the swift-sharp smell to its source. Wet, once, and dried pooling, he found it just beneath the cornice of the turret’s second flair. Running a glove over it, he sniffed. Blood. No acid this time, but someone had fallen, or sat here, long enough for it to drip, or spatter.

“Find something?”

“Yeah. He was bleeding pretty heavily. Sat here a moment… But the trail goes up, not down.”

A quick spatter led him to a dead end, up the turret’s flare and then cut off, short and sudden.

“Either they bound the wound, fell off, or…”

“Portal,” finished Ciri, grimly.

“Yeah. Don’t think it was a fall. Someone would have noticed, down there.”

“Easy enough to find out.”

Ciri strode forward—remarkably careless of the height, he noted, with some discomfort—and sniffed the air deep, mouth open like a hunting dog.

“What are you doing?”

“Hush, Geralt, I’m working.”

With closed eyes, she took a few more deep breaths, the moonlight glittering off her belt, her eyelashes, her hair, and waved her hand out as if searching for something he could not see. It occurred to Geralt that he probably also glittered in the pale light, and this made him somewhat uncomfortable. What was it Yen had said? She’d called him a pearl, once, in jest, he’d thought—

“Definitely a portal—I think I can trace the signature—"

“What?”

A portal bloomed between her hands, green and gold and absolutely a glaring target for anyone with a crossbow within five miles. Instinctively, he placed his own body in the widest open angle between hers and the castle walls. How many seconds would it take the guard to shout, to sight, to aim upwards?

“Ciri—put that out—just blink us—”

“Get IN Geralt, we can follow them if we trace their molecular path!”

“What—Can’t you just figure out where they went and then we go there?”

A heavy iron bolt thudded into the rooftop at their feet, and another whistled overhead a split second after.

“Geralt, GET IN.”

The portal shimmered, a blinding vortex of unknown, and Geralt’s stomach clenched.

He stepped through anyway, a moment after his daughter.

\---

White-black-gold-green, the colors flashed together in a bright spurt before his eyes in a wash of hot and cold, wet and dry, before spitting him out unceremoniously on a lawn of dead leaves and grass.

“Ergh,” he spat, face-first in the bracken. 

“We’re here! Get up and see if you can scent anything.”

Groaning, Geralt pulled himself up one limb at a time. They had landed in a dark forest, just off a small track dusty enough for frequent use. Ciri had emerged on her feet, and jogged lightly around the spot where he'd lain, marking out the area for inspection. 

“I’m not a dog, you know.”

“Witcher senses, my ass. You smell your way around and anyone with half a brain knows it.”

“Most have less than a quarter, then,” he groused, already sniffing despite his protests. 

“True, true,” she said, merrier than any past-midnight hour really called for. “Now, tell me about this case of yours. Name? Profession? Any family?” 

Woodbine, nekker droppings, a little scorch scent—could be an old campfire. Just stop, Ciri, he thought. Just stop.

He knew she wouldn’t.

“You don’t wanna know.”

“Oh, come on, Geralt. Suddenly got all official on me? Client confidentiality and all that? You’re worse than Eskel!"

“Ciri…” he started, squatting in the dust and tangling his hands through the leaves for moral support. They were really doing this, weren't they?

“This. He. It’s not just any courtier.”

She turned at that, bridling, long lines of her already getting ready to levy a lecture. Gods, his child. She was so much like Yen.

“Is this about another pretty sorceress? Not again! Geralt, what is wrong with you, I thought—"

He needed her to stop, to stop _now_ , to listen, to not make this any worse than it had to be.

“Ciri.”

Something in his voice must have warned her, because she stopped mid-sentence and stared at him. He couldn’t see her face in the half-light, just a dark curved jaw and gemstone eyes.

She stared at him blankly for a moment, wheels turning, and then—

“No. Tell me you didn’t.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello everyone it's been a while. you have my apologies. life stuff happened... I promise the updates on this will get more regular. thank u all for your patience.


	5. Chapter 5

“No. Tell me you didn’t.”

A soft night breeze swept through the forest, and he wished Yen was there to toss him onto the wind like so many witcherly leaves. He wondered where they were, how long it would take to reach civilization. If their quarry had portaled again. He couldn’t see Ciri’s face, and with the moon silhouetted behind her head, her shadow fell on him dull and ominous.

“Didn't want to disappoint the chamberlain,” he said, after a nauseous pause. “We're friends.”

“Emhyr?”

The sound left her mouth in a quick puff of an exhale, barely a word at all.

“Yeah. Mererid’s worried, of all things. Guess he really cared about the old man. You know he abdicated?”

She didn’t answer. Just kept looking down at him with that same still, frozen stare.

He’d expected rage. Temper, smashing, a quick blink away into a portal, taking her who knows where to calm down. Maybe she’d sulk with Dandelion or Crach for a few weeks, maybe she’d swear up and down not to speak to him again until he apologized—and he would. After.

“Why?” she asked softly, in the too-still air.

Ah. That, he hadn’t expected.

He grunted, and dug his fingers into the earth with unexpected fervor.

“Man’s missing. Like him or not, I gotta try.”

Something like that. More like owed Emhyr, owed him more than a life-debt: owed him the life of his daughter twofold. He would not stay his hand to help such a man, if anything lay in his power to do.

“He… He would have had you killed?” He could tell she was trying to keep her voice even, steady.

“But he didn’t.”

He met her eyes, finally, and saw hurt there, and scorn. It hurt him too, more than he’d been ready for—but he knew better than to try to make her listen.

“Caught the scent,” he said. “Blood begins again here.”

“Have fun,” she whispered, voice soft as a gash.

He sighed in the darkness, and put a hand over his face. In a blast of green-and-gold light, she was gone as fast as she’d come, leaving Geralt alone with his work.

\---

The trail led north, by some chance marked by no more magical interference, portal or otherwise. A steady, slow drip of blood for the first few miles that disappeared into two sets of footprints. One was smaller than the other, an elf, maybe? Perhaps a small woman, or a very young man with long legs. It was hard to say, with tracks, and tracks faint as these no less.

He hoped the wound was bound.

Down the dusty road through the night and into the day, Geralt chased his trail, stopping only to forage once. He pressed on with the speed of a man possessed—both because he had nothing better to do, and because he was afraid that if he stopped and thought about what he was doing, he might stop.

What had possessed him to go after Emhyr? The question did not bear entertaining. It was as simple as he had told Ciri: The man needed help, and so he would help him. Such was the Witcher’s creed, was it not?

Not like that had ever stopped him refusing aid to anyone amoral before. And some would say Emhyr would leave a better world for being empty of him.

He pressed on through the brush, annoyed at himself, and trying to pretend it was because he’d upset Ciri—and not because he could not entirely understand why he was doing this either.

Near nightfall, the tracks began to taper off, getting fainter and fainter in dead foliage, long fallen. Save for the occasional shove of leaves off to the side—as if marking a fall—very little trace remained at all of any passing. He went carefully, so carefully, that he did not glimpse the little cabin in the trees nearly before he shuffled into its clearing.

The clearing was still, not a bird sung, not a brook babbled incessantly in the distance. Only stillness.

Quiet as a wolf, Geralt sniffed deeply, and caught the scent of fresh blood, woodsmoke on the air. Very faint. He pressed into the clearing, hand on his sword hilt, and padded up to the door with his breath in his throat. It hung slightly open, ajar at an angle.

Very slowly, he pressed the door open, counting to five as the hinges creaked over themselves.

Inside, the stench of rotting flesh hit him, but otherwise the cabin was unremarkable. A cot covered in a heap of furs, a small bench with a few rusted tools barely visible in the dim light. A large game bag spread over a body; boots stuck out the end, that would be the rot. Oddly small, purple boots. A trapper’s den, most likely, but one that hadn’t seen the trapper in a long while.

He took a step inside onto the dirt floor, tamped flat with use, covered in—footprints. Small and large.

“Go away, Geralt,” whispered the heap of furs, in a gravel voice almost too soft to hear.

The skin on the back of his neck prickled.

Still stepping cautiously, tense as a bowstring, Geralt went to the cot and pulled back the top fur. It slipped over his gloves like silk. A marten hide? A few locks of silver-shot dark hair looped over the next fur, grey, a hare’s. Slowly, he brushed them aside, before peeling back the fur again to find what lay beneath.

A dark brown eye blinked up at him, brow drawn taught with pain but somehow still angry.

“I told you to go.”

Geralt huffed out a breath that was almost a laugh, and the tension in his shoulders eased. He’s alive, _he’s alive._ The thought filled him to overflowing, a rush of emotion so strong he barely knew what it was. But he grinned it away.

“Doesn’t look much like you’re in a position to be giving orders, Emhyr,” he said, with a faux casualness one might use to calm an injured animal. Trust this man to make all things more difficult than they had to be.

“I am ordering you nonetheless. Leave me be.” He took a quavering breath. “It is best.”

“Bullshit,” said Geralt, already fishing through the furs to find the rest of Emhyr. Now that he had him, he didn’t damn well intend to lose him. “Tell me what happened.”

“What’s done is done,” said the former emperor of all the known world, and it sounded as though every syllable had cost him.

His hand closed on flesh—a little too cool to the touch for his liking—and Geralt shoved away a mountain of furs. Husks of beaver and stoat, deer and rabbit, all tumbled to the floor in a heap around his boots as he leaned over the dirty cot. It smelled of tannin, blood, and rot.

Underneath all of it, Emhyr was naked as the day he was born, streaked with blood and dirt, and gods knew what else. He’d curled into a tight ball of limbs, remarkably small for a full-grown man, and kept his face turned away even as Geralt reached for him. The bones of his spine stood out clear against the olive skin, with space enough between to thread a finger.

Privately, Geralt reflected that he would never be able to fear this man again, and he almost felt a twinge of regret.

Emhyr still wouldn’t look at him, so he brushed his sweeping hair away from the nape of his neck to get a better look. A little blood, a little dirt, a little side effects of disembowelment—preferably not his own, but it was hard to tell. Nothing Geralt hadn’t seen before, and nothing he intended to fuss over now. What mattered now were wounds: how many, where they were, and how long it had been since this decidedly difficult man elected to crawl under a pile of furs instead of address his problems.

But it paid to keep some things close to your chest with this one.

“Hey, that your handiwork?” he said instead, nodding at the body in the corner. “What’d he do?”

“What do you think, witcher?” came the snappish, if feeble, reply. “You tracked him here. Do not make me connect the dots for you.”

“Haven’t checked that body yet. Figured I’d start with the living. You hurt?”

There was an injured pause.

Then, “My wounds are not of the physical plane.”

“Look pretty physical to me,” snorted Geralt, putting a hand on Emhyr’s bony hip and tugging.

This time, Emhyr turned to the touch with a small exhale, unfolding very slightly so that he could lay on his side, facing Geralt. He still did not open his eyes—and showed not a sign of self-consciousness regarding his state of undress, not that it mattered in that moment. (Some hind part of Geralt’s brain noted this from a barely-respectful distance.)

He checked for injuries as quickly as he could, skimming lightly over the bare, dirty planes of skin. His findings were not encouraging: Two dirty gouges, one in the meat of the right thigh, one in the left side. Neither looked deep, but both had festered black around the edges. Neither should have caused the lethargy, the clear disassociation, the strange clouded pain that crept behind his eyes. An infection, maybe—a poison, more likely.

“What the hell, Emhyr,” he said softly, mostly to himself.

Emhyr’s glossy head fell back against the furs, his jaw tipped too far back, his neck too open. His breath, Geralt realized suddenly, too shallow. He opened both eyes for a brief, half-lidded moment.

“I did not think that you would come,” whispered Emhyr. He sighed, once, with either sorrow or contentment, and his eyes fell closed. 

“Hey, hey,” said Geralt, patting his cheek urgently, “don’t—don’t do that. Wake up.”

But Emhyr was asleep.

\---

The next few hours passed in a haze of activity. Whatever was wrong with him, Emhyr needed a healer, ideally a magic user. Also, ideally one that would recognize neither the White Wolf or the most-frequently-painted face in all of Nilfgaard, but the odds of that were slim. He would take the former over the latter—but anything, now, anything at all. The challenge was to find one. Anything to keep the soft breath still slipping over Emhyr’s lips, the sweat still beading on his pale forehead. Anything, for Ciri to see her father alive one more time.

When Emhyr went dark on him, Geralt had swept him up in a deer hide and carried him out of the hut, pausing only to place him gently down on the grass while he checked the other body inside. An elf, male, he thought, squinting in the dark, though the face had rotted nearly beyond recognition. Very dead. Angular facial structure, the robes of an Aen Elle—though no weapons or personal effects to speak of. No lead that might help him with the mystery of this strange illness.

Now, he strode through the grey moonlit wood with Emhyr in his arms, checking every few moments to make sure he was still breathing. He was, but pale and cold to the touch, and his breaths were shallow. The weight of a full-grown man should have been no small thing, too, but to Geralt, Emhyr felt light as a child. 

“Come on,” Geralt said, once, to the still form in his arms, “Ciri doesn’t need to see you like this.”

But Emhyr did not respond. Had to get the last word, was all. Of course, Ciri wouldn’t want to see him. Not now, not ever—a shame.

To an extent, Ciri was right. This was a contract, like any other. Except where it wasn’t, couldn’t be, not when he knew far too much about the man in his arms. Knew what dark things lurked in his past, knew that by all rights he ought to let him die right there in the wilderness. No one would know, and he would not even have to set his hand to the blade himself. 

He knew, too, that he would not leave him. Would Ciri, if she stood in his shoes?

A rustle in the underbrush startled him back to the knife-edge of reality. One crash of leaves against others, then another, then silence. He strode on, half an eye on the slight part of Emhyr’s lips. Any beast that came on him like this might get the first strike—but it would have hell to pay after. And he’d almost rather a beast than man, at this point. It had occurred to him that should anyone find him striding through the woods with the former emperor of Nilfgaard wrapped in a dirty deerskin, he would probably not live to explain the what, why, and how of it.

Still. What’s that old Witcher rule? Take life one problem at a time.

Sighing, Geralt strode on, pushing through overgrown underbrush while trying to remember the words for “sick”, “healer”, and “I didn’t do it” in Nilfgaardian. 


	6. Chapter 6

As the sun rose, Geralt broke out of the tree line over the banks of the lower Alba. The river plunged away, far below him down a sheer bank of sandstone. In the distance, the first faint rays of sunlight played over the rooftops of the City of Golden Towers, a thousand twinkling gems against the grey horizon.

Too far, thought Geralt, without pausing to admire the view. Too damn far to be of any use.

He’d walked all night, and not met a single soul. He still clutched Emhyr in stiff arms, both men flecked with the morning dew, and Emhyr’s chest still rose and fell, barely perceptible to any but a witcher’s eye. He’d tried to get a little Celandine down him, but no dice. And he wouldn’t try a potion without knowing what else was in him. 

Leaning against a sturdy pine, Geralt rested Emhyr’s weight against his knee to give his back a moment’s rest. The old emperor’s eyes still lay closed, his face wan and paler still in the daylight. A shadow of the proud, imperious ruler of the past—if he’d passed him on the street, Geralt thought, he would not have known him.

Thoughtlessly, he used his free hand to brush a lock of hair from his forehead, and Emhyr stirred very faintly in his sleep.

Geralt hummed, approving. Still kicking.

“You bitter old bastard,” he said. “Stay alive, just for spite’s sake, yeah?”

Turning from his burden, he breathed in the clear morning air. Pine, and birch, he smelled in the new wind, with the faintest tang of salt in the freshwater air rising. Animal dung, wet earth. And something else altogether too wholesome—fresh bread?

He sniffed again, in disbelief, and the scent only grew stronger. Warm and fresh-ground wheat, he thought. Well. Some luck after all?

It was easy enough to shift Emhyr over his shoulder, and follow the scent downhill, parallel with the river. Better to risk it than not—it was hardly a choice at all. Whatever he found at the source would be a sight better than “letting Emhyr die alone in the wilderness all because I don’t have my goddamn horse”.

Which was only a very slight distance from the truth anyway. Though you can’t ride a horse through thick forest without a trail, with any speed at all—despite what bards might have you believe. He did make a mental note to feed Roach an extra carrot or two when he got back.

He wound through the trees for only a few minutes, following the smell like a hunting hound, before breaking out onto a packed dirt road with fresh tracks. The road lay deserted, but the dust had barely settled. Gritting his teeth, Geralt hoisted Emhyr up just a little higher, and broke into a short, broken jog.

Witcher stamina or not, he was panting heavily by the time a small cart came into view. A large, middle-aged woman with shoulders as broad as her wide hips looked back in alarm as he wheezed up to level with the wagon seat, and she pulled up her mules with a look of consternation. She had olive skin and a sharp nose—distinctly Nilfgaardian—and a pile of dark hair mounded on each side of her head. The smell of fresh bread permeated everything.

“You alright sir?” she said, eyebrows jumping up into her hairline at the sight of the body in his arms. Common, praise everything she spoke common.

“He’s— I’m—” panted Geralt. Melitele, you’d think he’d be in better shape. “He needs help. It’s… a long story.”

For someone thrust into an entirely unexpected emergency situation, the bread woman reacted rather well. Without hesitation, she woah-d the mules, had them tied, and jumped down to clear space in the back of the wagon.

Not one to look a gift horse—or mule—in the mouth, Geralt gratefully laid Emhyr down in the wagon bed between stacks of fresh bread. A few loaves tumbled down onto the deerskin, and their rescuer grimaced, but said nothing.

“I’m Geralt,” he said, praying to all the gods he didn’t believe in that she wouldn’t recognize his name. “He needs a healer. Any mages near here?”

“Pristine, baker,” said the woman, delightfully unimpressed with him. Excellent, she didn’t know them. “No, none around here. I’m headed into town though, you might come with, get some help there.”

“I—” Geralt glanced back at the wagon bed where Emhyr lay motionless. How long did he have?

“Nothing to be had running through the forest,” observed Pristine.

Geralt opened his mouth, and then shut it again. He could see the sweat on Emhyr’s forehead, feel the wasting heat of his skin. His bare feet stuck out the back of the wagon, soft uncalloused heels covered in road dust.

Someone was going to kill him for this—whether it was Morvran or Ciri, whoever got to them first.

“Take a seat on the wagon, young man,” suggested Pristine kindly, in a tone that suggested he was not the first vagrant she’d picked up along this road.

He climbed up onto the wagon obediently, and Pristine clicked her whip at the mules until the trees flew past them. She guided the long-eared animals along with a steady hand, keeping a good pace while avoiding the worst of the bumps in the road. Surely a sigh faster than I could jog, thought Geralt, but he looked back at the wagon bed again, just to be sure—

“Not gonna get there any faster by worrying.” Pristine’s hand on his arm was reassuring, if very small. “Why don’t you tell me a little bit about yourself?”

“That’s a long story.”

“We’ve got time. Start wherever you like.”

\---

Miles rolled by, and Geralt told every story he could think of about monsters, men, and everything in between. The knowledge that he was a witcher didn’t in the least bother Pristine. In point of fact, when he tremulously led with that—hoping against hope it wouldn’t jog her memory but unable to lie to her face—she simply shrugged. “Figured,” she’d said, gesturing at their cargo. “Though you seem to have a little less self-preservation than most.”

He’d blinked.

“You know other witchers?”

“That’s my business, now, isn’t it? Carry on now. More about those nekkers and your lady daughter.”

And so, they left it at that. Geralt had worn on the morning, telling tales of shapeshifters and wild women cursed by their kin, kikimores and bear-men, wyverns and slyzards. He’d never thought of himself as much of a storyteller, but unlike most of his companions, Pristine seemed more inclined to listen than talk. Dandelion could stand to learn a thing or two from her.

At first, he’d fidgeted, looking back often and never stringing more than five words together before he had to pause and gather himself again. Nothing he could do, now. Nothing to do but wait. But Pristine was patient, and soon enough he slipped into a rhythm. It was nice to tell his version of events, for once, not the famous ones more fiction than truth.

The miles slipped by as he talked, and the hours with them, as he struggled to find real words for the things bards mangled with song. When they pulled up at a little ramshackle town of board walls and stone porches, Geralt had barely noticed the movement of the sun in the sky. He leapt out of the wagon to check on Emhyr, sweeping him up against his chest to feel his heart, the soft pass of breath—still alive. He was still alive.

Pristine looked back at him with some pity.

“Thank you,” he said, cradling Emhyr against himself. He’d walked the wide world enough to know this quest of his likely foolish. Other, better men would give it up. Destiny would have its way, no matter what he had to say about it, so best not to cause too much trouble.

But as sometimes did, that bitter stubbornness rose up in his chest—and he spat at destiny. He would not let _this_ be this great man’s end.

“Where can I take him?”

“Last house on the left,” said Pristine. “Abigail moved from up north. She’s the best healer for miles, though she’s got little enough magic. Not that would stop any of those northern barbarians.”

“North?”

He’d known an Abigail, once.

“Down from Vizima, poor dear.”

She patted his shoulder, and handed him a loaf of bread, sun-warmed with a crisp crust. He took it awkwardly with the crook of his elbow, and smiled at her, genuinely. She’d been very nice and hadn’t once called him a nasty witcher, which was getting unusual.

“Best of luck to you.”

“Safe travels,” he returned. “Hope your bread… sells good.”

He turned away from her, straightened his tired back, and put one foot in front of the other down the sun-warmed street.

\---

“Why is it that every time we see each other, something is desperately wrong?”

The tall ginger in the doorway sighed, and beckoned him in with an expression suggesting she’d really had about enough of his shit. Geralt couldn’t fathom why—Vizima was years ago, the outskirts even longer. He couldn’t possibly have done anything to irritate her in years.

As for the time, well. Life happens?

“Abigail, I’m sorry, it’s been a while—”

“Not even a letter,” she said flatly, gaze sliding over him appraisingly, “But spare me, please. I suppose I still owe you one. Come on, come in. Who’s this?”

He stumbled over her threshold and into a familiarly warm and wet house of healing. Some concoction smoked over the fire—sewants, hellebore, a little ginger—and hope flared in his heart. Perhaps a little nature magic might be enough.

“No one important,” he grunted, setting Emhyr down on the indicated cot. He checked his pulse surreptitiously before removing his hand. Still there, still fluttering.

“That tone of voice tells me he is. Now, let’s see.”

Abigail shoved him aside with a gentle push and knelt by the cot. Tossing back the deer hide, she inspected Emhyr with the clinical speed of a professional who might or might not be paid for her work at the end of the day. He wished she would show a little more confidence.

“How did this happen?”

“Don’t know. Found him like this, found a body with him.”

“Wounds on the other body?”

Geralt paused. There had been, hadn’t there? Two clinical cuts, one at the back of the head at the skull joining, the other in the femoral artery. Nothing wasted. Had Emhyr done that?

He shifted his weight. “Yeah.”

Humming with suspicion, Abigail worked the body before her again, carefully pulling out tongue, checking pulse. She listened for a long time, it felt like to Geralt, to the inhale and exhale of his lungs, her ear to his chest.

“A friend of yours?” she said finally, breaking the silence.

Geralt sat down heavily and thought about this. He felt suddenly very tired, and very helpless.

“…Yeah.” You could say that.

The silence closed over them again, until finally Abigail sighted and stood up, dusting off her hands on her skirt.

“Go. Come back later. This will take some time.”

“Can you help him?”

“I don’t know yet,” she said, a little snappishly, “But if you want me to find out, you better go.”

“Understood.”

He still didn’t really understand, but he knew sorceresses liked their space and witches probably did too. Hauling himself up, he swayed a little on his way to the door, and Abigail shot him a single concerned glance.

“Get some rest. It’ll be okay.”

“M. Thanks.”

\---

At the nearest inn, face-first in the sheets of an ancient mattress, Geralt spent a delightful amount of time unconscious, after filling himself with a delightful amount of bread and cheese. He fully intended to be dead to the world for as long as possible.

A rhythmic pounding soon punctuated his nap however, and he threw one boot at the wall before realizing it was the door. 

_Knock-Knock-Knock—_

The rapping came again, and he raised a bleary head. “Whosse—come in.”

The doorknob shook once, twice, three times, and then fell off entirely onto the floor with a metallic clank. Geralt sat up, just as the innkeeper poked his head into the room.

“Miss Abigail wants to see you, sir. Says there’s a lady to see your friend, and she’s causing something of a disturbance. And that he’s awake ‘for now’, whatever that means—”

_Awake for now—_

Geralt stumbled down the stairs almost before the innkeeper could finish his last words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your patience with this y'all, on several levels. 
> 
> On the upside, we've set the stage now and I know where the rest of this is going. 
> 
> WHOOAAAA WE'RE HALFWAY THERE


End file.
